Thursday, September 26, 2013

Twisted Vagabondage Tale From Bulgaria Part I

I was on the way slow train from Budapest through the Balkans enroute to Bulgaria, guzzling Egri Bikavier (Bull’s Blood) wine and chainsmoking, when the train came to a jolting halt in order to be boarded by some heavily armed Serbian soldiers.

A Serb with an impressive handlebar moustache and assault rifle demanded my passport. “Americansky!” the Serb spat. “You must get off train!”

Knees buckling, I asked “The train won’t leave without me, will it?” Considering all the seething turmoil in ex-Yugoslavia, I was seriously creeped out. I hoped the stop wouldn’t turn out to be an internment center or refugee camp.“You must get Serbian visa!” he announced officiously. He rattled something off to his comrade in a Cyrillic alphabet soup, then briskly escorted me from the train. I knew I should've taken the more roundabout route through Romania rather than Yugoslavia. However, for this to be a real trip through the Balkans, I had taken the more direct path.

Inside a wooden shack, resembling an entrance to a concentration camp, they interrogated me. “I’m going to Bulgaria, not Serbia,” I assured them.“Why are you going to Bulgaria?” the moustached man asked while eyeing me suspiciously.

I didn’t want them to think I was a spy or (even worse) a reporter. Instead of saying, “Because it’s there,” I said, “Uh, for vacation.”They burst out laughing. The sinister border guards seemed amused that I was taking a “vacation” in Bulgaria. They let me back on the train but not in on the joke. They obviously knew something I didn’t. Judging by their odd laughter, I wondered what was in store for me in Bulgaria. Destination: Plovdiv!

* * *

The
blond-haired, blue-eyed Moslem resembling author Bruce Chatwin going
native stood defiantly, playing the Rhodope bagpipes in the square with
its sad wail recalling the ululations of the muezzins who were rapidly
disappearing across modernizing Bulgaria. He was a Pomak: an ethnic Slav
Bulgarian whose family had converted to Islam under Ottoman rule.

Now, Bulgaria is a staunchly Orthodox Christian country. Yet, like all Balkan nations, it has its fair share of Moslems and Gypsys who didn't quite integrate under the former communist government’s enforced “Bulgarization” program. This is a widely prevalent paradox in what could be the dizzying Balkans’ most puzzling jigsaw piece.

Well off the beaten European tourist trail, Plovdiv had a lot of ancient remnants to recommend it. There was a gorgeous Ottoman mosque, some Roman ruins, and even older pre-Greek Thracian ruins. The place had a magical, almost Orphic atmosphere. There was a Turk unrolling his prayer mat in the marketplace, an old guy leading a trained bear on a leash, and a midget in formal attire waiting tables at a restaurant.

It felt like I had jumped into a Tintin comic. Surely Bulgaria was the inspiration for the mythical kingdom of Syldavia that Tintin visited in King Ottakar’s Scepter. The only things I truly knew about Bulgaria were that the Bulgarian defector Georgi Markov was killed on London Bridge in broad daylight by being casually poked in the ribs with a poison-tipped umbrella and that Bulgaria (Vulgaria) was the home of the evil baron who hated children in Cubby Brocolli’s Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

Built on an ancient Thracian site, Plovdiv was called Philippopolis when it was founded in 342 B.C. As I walked the lower town, I noted the Byzantine walls, Roman columns, and Ottoman minarets. The Hisar Kapiya (Fortress Gate) was built in the time of Philip II of Macedon: a trace of Thrace.

Walking
into the Stariyat Grad, I just couldn’t believe how picturesque all of the
19th-century timber-framed mansions were, almost coming to loggerheads
on the narrow cobblestone streets like a fantastical setpiece for a
German Expressionist film. (Bulgaria's King Boris, who resembled Boris
Karloff, actually was German.) This was all the product of the so-called
Bulgarian Renaissance. Amid
this stunning Balkanesque backdrop were more people than the city could
comfortably hold. I had arrived in the middle of an international trade
fair, the largest in the Balkans. A dodgy Brit with bad teeth bellowed,
“This fair is great, mate. Should you need anything at all, my trade is
‘pharmaceuticals.’”

I
joined the "korso" (evening promenade) down Ulitsa Knyaz Aleksandar I,
hoping to uncover a restaurant, any restaurant. Though most of the
eateries were packed with trade-fair revelers, I finally landed a table
outside a small dump in an alley. I wondered why such an incredible city
was almost unknown to tourists. With a little renovation, it was an
undiscovered Prague or Talinn, albeit with a different architectural
legacy.

After waiting an hour for my Bulgarian grub (tripe soup),
I was steaming mad. I should've just gotten some fresh yoghurt and
baklava (both are purportedly Bulgarian inventions) at the outdoor
markets. When my lukewarm “special” that resembled cannibalism and
locally-produced red wine finally arrived, I remarked on the poor
quality of both to the tiny waiter and asked for the bill.

“The
wine eez wery special,” the dwarf explained in a loud castrato voice, as
I eyed the hefty markup. I’d encountered this menu switch ploy before.“Nuh-uh, no way!” After
arguing about the bill for several minutes, the waiter ran back inside
to get the Bolshevik manager, who was actually wearing one of those big
bulgy Chef Boyardee hats. He yelled at me loudly and redfaced in
Bulgarian. I felt like I was in one of those Tony Curtis Great Race
movies, facing the villain with a pencil-thin Cantinflas mustache, or
almost any flick with David Niven. I refused to be extorted.

Out
of nowhere appeared two youngish travelers, looking very Lonely Planet
and asking, “Hey, what’s all the trouble?” An American with a Midwestern
accent who was teaching English in Plovdiv expertly negotiatied down
the bill somewhat, as I noted the Bulgarian mannerism of nodding the
head no and shaking the head yes. This made it even harder to follow the
course of the conversation.

Eventully, it was hearty guffaws and
“blagodaryas” (thank yous) all around. I then left with the American
and his Bulgarian sidekick to the almost-perfectly-preserved Roman
ampitheater, where we sacrificed a bottle of Bulgarian red in the
moonlight. One of Bulgaria’s early rulers named Khan Krum used to drink
wine out of his enemies’ skulls, I remember reading somewhere. Probably
more hygienic than passing around the bottle. In the moonlight among the
ruins, my new companion mused, “I can tell you’re different.”John M. Edwards is
a writer and photojournalist. He has traveled five continents with
experiences ranging from surviving a ferry sinking off Siam to getting
caught in a military coup in Fiji. His writing has appeared in CNN Traveller, Entertainment Weekly, Salon.com, Condé Nast Traveler, Islands, Matador, World Hum, BootsnAll,
and other publications. He received five NATJA (North American Travel
Journalists Association) Awards, two TANEC (Transitions Abroad Narrative
Essay Contest) Awards, and three Solas (sponsored by Travelers’ Tales).
He edits the Rotten Vacations anthology.

Thanks for the story, John, which we will continue in part two. Bulgaria is one of my favorite places. I wrote about it in the chapter of Sacred Ground & Holy Water called "My Big Fat Bulgarian Orgy." Stumbled into the birthday party of Bulgaria's original blues singer Vasko the Patch and had a wonderful time with his gaggle of gypsy and biker pals. The only similarity I saw to the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang film was that the food and ladies were both Truly Scrumptious.

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"No one since Hunter S. Thompson has loved the wild and woolly world with as much intensity, insight, passion and gusto as Lyn Fuchs in his new collection of travel writing Sacred Ground & Holy Water. From Africa, Central America, India, the Pacific Northwest, and back again, Lyn´s rambunctious dispatches from the far corners of our strange globe arrive with the full force of whitewater plunging from mountains, lava burning the very soles from our hiking boots. So delicious are the bountiful meals he eats, so beautiful the foreign lasses he dallies with, nothing is left for the reader but a searing jealousy, an aching desire to be out there ourselves. Thompson, rest his soul, would be proud." Tony D´Souza, Author of Whiteman, The Konkans, and Mule

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"Alternating between profundity and lunacy, Lyn Fuchs delivers a highly readable romp in his own search for the meaning of the universe." Sean O'Reilly, President and Founder of Auriga Distribution Group, Redbrazil.com, Riverinthesky, & Travelers' Tales

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"Five Stars! Fuchs is a deft raconteur, and he shows he can paint a compelling romantic description: 'While the northern turning leaves mark the passing of years and urge productivity, the southern rolling waves hint of changeless eons and instill contentment.' Give credit to Fuchs for getting his point across. As he writes, 'Like it or not, all cultures are forever changing and forever changed.' Globalization is impacting Mayan culture in Guatemala, for example. Traditional local celebrations are turning tacky and curious. Yet, Fuchs offers valuable insights into people and how culture is changing for good and bad. Lovers of travel should heed his advice to visit once-classic cultures before they disappear forever." Gary Klinga, Reviewer at ForeWord Reviews

"Instead of your typical guidebook tour, Lyn Fuchs looks up (always the best view). He says what he's thinking in his mind and reflects not just on what he's seeing but the big picture: how religion is presented, how people act/react, what people are wearing. It's fascinating - sort of a social anthropologist, but only the interesting stuff. I loved this book." Andy Hayes, Editor of Sharing Travel Experiences

"I loved how raw and honest this book is. I picked this up to read for awhile on a Saturday night before tossing a movie in the DVD player. Needless to say, I never made the movie. I read this whole book, start to finish, right then." Mystee Blackwood, Reviewer at GoodReads Reviews

"A uniquely witty and perceptive take on Mexico - Fresh Wind & Strange Fire again shows Lyn Fuchs to be not just a mere travel writer, but also a practical philosopher a la Montaigne, with a dash of Henry Miller's American humor and sexuality." Rick Skwiot, Author of Sleeping With Poncho Villa, Death In Mexico, and San Miguel De Allende, Mexico: Memoir of a Sensual Quest For Spiritual Healing

"This book is a gem and I highly recommend it. The writing is top-notch with just enough snark to make his anecdotes fun. I had a hard time putting this book away." Barry Huddleston, Reviewer at Gnostalgia Book Reviews

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"The writing in Fresh Wind & Strange Fire is almost poetic and the history, philosophy and comedy reek of the human spirit in Mexico. I feel privileged to have read this work as it fulfilled everything I want out of a book. Comedy, suspense and self-reflection. This work demonstrates all of these, and the exemplary writing grasps the 'show, don't tell' philosophy that many writers fail to practice." Jairus Reddy, Publisher at Hobbes End Publishing

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"Sacred Ground & Holy Water is a collection of travel stories, significant events and memorable experiences during the extensive travels of the author, Lyn Fuchs. It seems there has never been a dull moment in Fuchs' travels: from encounters with bears in Yosemite, enduring bone rattling bus journeys in Central America, paddling with orcas, taking part in the Day of the Dead in Mexico, experiencing Samurai in Japan, or simply reflecting on a cockroach that shares his morning shower or a beetle he discovers in his navel. Sacred Ground & Holy Water mixes humor and irony into experiences that can only come from spending a significant part of one's life traveling the world. There are over a dozen "Tales of Enlightenment," all told in memorable humorous prose. This is not classic travel nonfiction where you get lost in detailed descriptions of people or place. It reads more like a narrative equivalent of channel surfing - simply skipping to the most memorable parts of someone's personal memoirs." Matt Scott, Reviewer at Matador Travel Network

"Gonzo tourist Fuchs's account of way-off-the-beaten-path Mexico makes Anthony Bourdain appear reserved. His approach style is primitive and organic, with no first-world intercession or assistance. Only three pages in and he's solicited a fake passport, trial-and-errored peyote dosage, and had a tooth extracted with wincing crudeness by a "dentist." While he's more author Hunter S. Thompson than travel guide Rick Steves, and certainly sensational in his gleefully gritty pursuit of the real Mexico, he's not exploitive, cloying, or insincere and more often than not he reveals with acuity and bite a talent for finding the conceit (with prickling quotability). Though not your standard travel guide - no maps, agenda, index, or even photos are in this book - it is nonetheless vivid, and illuminatingly dense with lost histories of an unconsidered culture. Fuchs rambles (sometimes escaping) from Mayan and Mixtec barrios and villages to cities and towns, and opens up to everything from mafiosos and mystics to moles and iguanas. Fuchs offers unpredictable reading, recommended to those who like travel to challenge their perspective." Benjamin Malczewski, Library Journal